I don’t have the energy for the pretence of poetry.

I think too many boys are infatuated with seducing themselves using the wit of writers as a substitute for nakedness. I think sincerity, somehow, lies in the fumbling of expression, and that absolute accuracy sends the earnest into an uncanny valley. Although, the affair we’re having with irony might be worse.

A small promise, or a joke, I’ve always remembered was that at some point in life you’ll find close friends you’re inseparable with. Only a few to be fair. Some adults say you’ll meet em in kindergarten, others say high school, maybe college, or even the workplace. I don’t know.

I overthink the walks back to my house, scripting stories from off-hand glances, hesitations, and gaps of speech.

I see how they talk to and touch each other. I wonder if it’s the shared history. Maybe it’s that they don’t take things so seriously. Or the imaginary distance is settling it. I don’t know the answer, except that anxiety and imagination too often sit at the same dinner table.